


Going Home

by TheDreamscapist



Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDreamscapist/pseuds/TheDreamscapist
Summary: I found it impossible to really think about the fact that Drake had taken a bullet for me. I could not reconcile it with what I was, which in all honesty was a 27-year-old woman from rural Pennsylvania with an MFA and a lot of debt, who happened to be working the right shift at the right bar on the right night. I had come to Cordonia on a lark – New York was not working out, and I saw a door opening; a trip to Europe, fancy parties in beautiful places. An escape for awhile - for as long as it lasted, anyway - which I did not think would be very long.Now here I was almost a year later, in a foreign hospital room with a duchy to my name and a man who would die for me. How stupid, how utterly insane.Charlotte Feratu (MC) finds herself wishing for home as the pressures and dangers of a life at court mount. Will she stay in Cordonia or renounce her title?
Relationships: Drake Walker & Main Character (The Royal Romance), Drake Walker/Main Character (The Royal Romance), Drake Walker/Original Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Part 1

There was screaming. I _, I_ was screaming. Everyone was running and Drake was at my feet, a heap of suit curved like a kicked dog, head tucked, face obscured by hair.

No.

I dropped to the floor as people swarmed for the exits. I heard gunshots, more screaming. The tulle dress skirt puffed up around me, tangling my legs as I crawled towards his unmoving form. I was saying his name over and over again like a mantra, “Drake, Drake, Drake.” When I reached him I pulled his right shoulder towards me, tugging him onto his back. As he flopped over motionless one arm splayed against the floor and I saw the blood. I could not understand what was happening except _bad_ , except _no_. I fluttered my hands over his chest where a crimson flower bloomed, too afraid to touch it.

My eyes went to his face, unconscious and tipped against the floor. I brought his cheeks into my palms and shook him lightly, the tremor in my hands doing most of the work. “Drake, hey hey Drake stay with me hey open your eyes hey wake up Drake…” repetitive, helpless.

More gunshots, people were still screaming. Someone grabbed me roughly by the arm, hoisting me off the floor. I turned to see one of the palace guards, black-suited and with a pistol in his hand. He began hauling me towards a doorway behind the dais. I screamed again and clawed at his hand furiously. In surprise, he let me go and I scrambled back to Drake. “He needs help!” I wailed, as the guard ran up on me again. “Call someone! Do something!” This time another guard came to his side, each one locked on my bicep and together they heaved me up. I pulled, I fought and I swung, kicking my feet, sending one golden heel souring, but even in my fear and my fury I could not overpower them. My tiara fell to the ground with a ting as I whipped my head around to scream “No, no! Don’t leave him! I can’t leave him!” I reached for the doorframe as they carried me into the hallway, away from the noise and the chaos, and got one last glimpse of his form, red pooled at his side, in the empty ballroom among the overturned tables and centerpieces. A remnant, no one was coming to save him.

“Why aren’t you helping him?” I screamed at the guards, my voice echoing down the corridor. “Our priority is you. We have to get you to the safe room,” one grunted as I twisted against his grip. I let out a noise that was halfway between a sob and a growl, something from deep down. These fucking nobles, fucking rich assholes. Drake had been right all along. They’d save the Duchess, but they’d let the commoner die on the floor. I felt a latent anger in me seethe and I screamed something deep and loud and long, expelling all the air from my lungs, letting it ring down the empty hallway, getting lost in the hush of the lush carpets and tapestries. Then I was spent. The guards did not react.

The one on my right pushed open a fire safety door and we rushed down two flights of concrete stairs and into another hallway. Unlike the rest of the palace this was austere white with gray steel and fluorescent lights. At the end of the hall two more guards stood armed, rifles ready. Seeing us coming, one spoke into the radio on his lapel, “New York has been acquired. All in custody.”

Another door, this one larger and heavier than the first, buzzed open and I was taken into a windowless room, plushly carpeted and with leather couches. A small kitchen counter, a dinette table, a first aid cot. While expensive, it resembled more than anything a waiting room. Constantine and Regina sat on a couch, disheveled, but unharmed. They looked up as I stumbled inside and then someone was in front of me hugging me, crushing me in his arms. I stood still, gazing placidly over Liam’s right shoulder at the cabinets over the kitchen counter, the soft lighting, everything was so quiet.

He pulled back and gasped “Are you hurt?” Using one hand to roughly sweep the hair out of my eyes and examine my face and forehead. “Are you bleeding?” He called back over my shoulder “She’s bleeding, get a medic!”

“It’s not mine,” I said dully. He looked back at me. “It’s not mine,” and I looked down at the smears of crimson on my hands and arms, the budding rose of color that had been stamped on my torso. “It’s not mine.”

-

Someone wrapped me in a blanket and someone put a hot cup of tea into my hands. I sat on the couch next to Liam as he fussed and touched my shoulder and rubbed my arm. Every few minutes he’d get a briefing from Bastian through a walkie he gripped tightly in his right hand. The situation seemed bad and the small space seethed with fear and tension. I thought about Hana and Maxwell and Savannah and little Bartie, but I kept coming back to the blood, his cold face alone on the floor.

A few hours passed, mostly in silence. Constantine and Regina were corresponding on their phones, taking calls with advisors. Eventually Bastian arrived in person. I sat on the couch as Constantine, Regina and Liam huddled around. Hana and Maxwell had been taken hostage, but “the situation was resolved.” The knowledge registered as a dull pain behind an even deeper ache.

I looked up at Bastian as he turned to me, “Drake?” I said.

“We got him out. All we know right now is he went into surgery.” His eyes fell, “I don’t know his condition.” He then looked pointedly at me, “What we do know is that the target was Lady Charlotte.”

 _Me,_ I thought. Me?

I furrowed my brows, “Why?”

Bastian shook his head, “The investigation is ongoing, but we will keep you briefed on any new information. In the meantime each of you will have extra security detail. I do not want you breathing unless I know about it.”

He continued, “The palace is secure. We’ll have you escorted to your rooms, but there will be no movement for the rest of the day. Everyone is on lockdown.”

I stood up quickly, knocking the blanket aside, “I want to see Drake.”

Bastian shook his head, “I cannot have you leave the secure area right now.”

“I want to see him.”

Liam held my arm, “We can’t do anything for him right now, he’s being taken care of.” He nodded his head at Bastian, “We’ll be the first to know if anything changes.”

“That’s not good enough!” I raised my voice, meeting Liam’s eye like a brick wall. Bastian stepped forward, “The hospital is not safe, there are too many people. Drake has security, but we would not be able to control the threat to your life.”

“My life? _My_ life?” I could feel hysteria creeping back in. “What about his life? If he dies–” I broke off, Liam’s eyes grew wide. “If he dies, oh my god I want to see him one more time.” I turned back to Liam, tears crawling into my eyes, “Please, let me see him one more time.”

His resolution crumbled swiftly and he turned back to Bastian. “Is there a way?” Bastian sighed out his nose, his mouth furrowed tight, and didn’t respond for a moment.

“I can have a car ready in the back garage in an hour.” He pointed his finger strongly at Liam, “No one knows about this. As far as anyone knows, Lady Charlotte is under secure guard here in the palace and no one is permitted to see her.”

I swallowed, “Thank you.” He nodded stiffly to both me and to Liam.

Liam put his hand on my back as I sagged back into my own pain. “Let’s get you to your room so you can change.” He turned to his parents, “I’ll be in the main office in an hour. We can respond to the press from there.” They nodded as Liam led me out of the little room and back up the hall, guards flanking us on each side.

-

The palace was quiet, or maybe I just couldn’t hear anything above the blood in my ears. It was still dark, the coolest part of the night right before dawn. The smell of spring grass wafted through the open corridors. Liam stood me in the middle of my suite and riffled through the dresser, finding a pair of jeans and a tee. He set them on the vanity in the bathroom. “Take a shower and put on some fresh clothes.” He walked me into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

I stood for a moment and then caught sight of myself in the mirror. The tiara was gone as were both my shoes. I did not know when I had lost the second one. My hair was ratted, falling out of the elegant quaff for which I had spent two hours in the salon. The dress was ruined, blood turning to a rotten shade of brown against the golden thread. I touched it idly. Where only a few hours before Drake had taken it off me, now it was a memento of his body motionless on the floor. I pulled the zipper down roughly, hearing the fabric rip. I tore it off my arms and pushed it away from me, kicking it savagely into a corner.

The shower was warm, but it did not warm me. Blood mixed with water, pooling around the drain. I watched it go, but then thought I should keep it, this remnant of the man I loved. If it was the last piece of him I had I wanted to keep it, no matter how terrible and horrible and wrong. I was on my hands and knees before I realized what happening, my body heaving, an alien keening coming from my mouth.

I don’t know how long I laid there, curled on the tile as water poured around me, until there was a tap on the door. “Charlotte?” A pause, “We have to go soon.” I wiped the tears and snot from my face, rubbing it under the water. Somehow, I got up and turned off the shower. Somehow I put on my clothes. Somehow I opened the door.

Liam looked tired, his eyes rheumy and red. I couldn’t tell if he’d been crying, but it then occurred to me that he was hurting too. Hurting more than I was. His best friend was _(dying, dead?)_ I pushed the thought away. But here he was laying out my clothes for me, keeping his composure, his compassion. A real king.

He handed me a jacket and I shrugged it on. “Wear these too,” he grabbed a scarf and an oversized pair of sunglasses off the bed. “Put them on before you get out of the car at the hospital.” I nodded and he handed me my phone, which I had left on my bedside table. “Call me when you see him. Tell me everything.” I took the phone and slid it into my pocket.

He stood in front of me and put one hand on each bicep. “It will be okay.” His voice was firm, secure, sure. I shook my head. “It will.” I nodded, feeling the tears well up again, pulling them back inside with a great shuddering breath.

Then he hugged, his arms fastening me in place. The pressure was good, the warmth was steady and secure. A little bit of the tension left my chest. I returned his hug, wrapping my arms up under his and holding tight.

After a while his grip lessened and he let me go. I abashedly wiped the tears from my face with the edge of my jacket. He handed me a pair of shoes and opened the door.


	2. Part 2

The drive was quiet, wedged into the back of a black Mercedes with two black-suited guards and a third sitting shotgun. The sky was lightening, Cordonia waking up, the terracotta roofs catching the first rays, the coolness of the night burning off. I could feel my adrenaline running out and a thick weariness creeping into my limbs. My body wanted rest, but I could not give in yet. It felt distinctly like spring mornings my last year in undergrad, when I would pull all-nighters and then walk to the dining hall when it had just opened for that first fresh cup of coffee. My body and mind exhausted, the air a sweet caress.  
  
I pulled on my disguise as we drove up to the entrance. The guards made me stay in the car as they did a survey of the lobby. The guard riding shotgun went inside and came out a few minutes later. He stepped into the back of the car and closed the door. “He’s out of surgery and has been moved to the ICU. I’m going to take you to the room. You are going to follow me. You are not going to go anywhere other than where I tell you. When we get to the room, I will survey the room before you are allowed to enter. If it is clear, Marc and I will be stationed outside.” He nodded to another guard that had been sitting in the back of the car, now standing next to the passenger door. “Do not talk to anyone - anyone - unless we give you permission. Is that understood?” I nodded.  
  
“Good. If you break any of these rules we will leave. Is that understood?” I nodded again.  
  
“Good. I will step out of the car and you will follow. Let’s go.”  
  
I kept my head down the entire way, my face shielded by the scarf and glasses. I didn’t see the hospital entrance or any of the people there. It was early and for the most part it was empty. I kept my eyes on my feet as we crossed the lobby to the elevators, ascended, and then went down another hallway. Nurses milled about on soft shoes and beeping came out of the rooms, papers shuffled. The smell of cold antiseptic and coffee swirled about.  
  
Another elevator, this time down one floor, and then another hallway. Towards the end, where the hall ended in a large picture window, we stopped at the last door on the left. The head guard motioned for me to stand to the side as he went in and whispered to the guard stationed inside. A moment later he came back, nodded, and opened the entrance for me.  
  
There he was, his soft brown hair tousled with sweat, his head lolled towards the doorway, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, breathing slowly. He wore a hospital gown, his right arm in the sleeve. His left arm and side of his chest were bare, the cloth pulled back exposing the dressing that covered the wound in his chest. Traces of bruises and iodine were visible up to his shoulder and the side of his neck. A blanket covered him from the torso down and an IV ran to a quietly hissing pump. Wires and tubing ran off his chest, the heart monitor beeped slowly.  
  
It was shocking to see him so vulnerable. It felt intimate - too intimate - far more intimate than the moments we’d shared a few long hours ago. I hesitated in the doorway, unsure what to do. He was alive. He was _alive_.  
  
I approached him and slipped my fingers into his limp right hand, careful to avoid touching the IV line on the back. Reaching up to wipe the sweaty hair off his forehead I whispered, “Hey, I’m here.” He didn’t move. Tears pricked in the corners of my eyes. I kept stroking his head, running my fingers gently through his hair, feeling the trickle of moisture down my face.  
  
Eventually I heard voices at the door and turned to see the guards talking with a short woman in light pink scrubs. They nodded and she came in. I gulped, trying to swallow the lump in my throat as she picked up the chart and addressed me. “How’s our boy doing?”  
  
“I – I don’t know.”   
  
She moved to the monitors, taking notes on the clipboard. “Has the doctor talked to you?”  
  
“No,” I swallowed. “No, I just got here.”   
  
She nodded, “I’ll send her in. He had a collapsed lung and three broken ribs. He’s stable now, but it can take a while for the anesthesia to wear off. We’ve also got him on low-dose morphine for pain.” She flipped the chart, and then closed it and hung it back on the bed, “The doctor will tell you more, but for now it looks promising.”  
  
A small flutter of hope opened up in my chest, “Yeah?” The nurse cocked her head and held up a hand, “Don’t get me wrong he’s got a long way to go, but he’s out of the woods for now.” She nodded, “Let me tell the doctor you’re here,” then she turned, her soft white shoes barely registering on the laminate floor. I watched her leave when I felt something squeeze my hand. My head snapped back around to Drake. His eyes were still closed, but he moved his head a bit, his mouth working over some raspy words.  
  
“Hey, hey hey,” I squeezed his hand back gently, “hey I’m here.”  
  
“…cotton andy…” I leaned in to listen “…or charlotte…” His voice cracked, and I reached up to smooth back his hair.  
  
“…ike pasghetti…” His face twitched, and then briefly contorted as he took a deeper breath.  
  
“Hey take it slow,” I said softly, caressing his head as his eyes fluttered open. “Drake,” I breathed, “hey.”  
  
“’Arlot” he said, his voice hoarse, and he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut again. I picked up a cup of water from the side table and presented him with the straw. He took a couple slow sips and fell back onto the pillow.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
I could not help it, at that moment I laughed. A heady relief swept through me hearing his gruff, sarcastic voice. He turned to me, “You’re pretty when you laugh.” His voice was thick with sleep and anesthetic.  
  
“Don’t talk,” I said, “you punctured a lung and broke three ribs.”  
  
“Hmmm” nodded, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling the tears come back, “I’m so sorry, I put you in danger I’m so sorry.”  
  
He opened his eyes, slowly focusing on my face again, his brow registered concern. “Feratu, why are you crying?”  
  
“You got shot-” My voice hiccuped, “You took a bullet for me” I finished lamely.  
  
“I’d do it again if it meant I got to see your face one more time.” A hot spear shot through my chest and I looked at him, his head lolled to the side, his droopy eyes staring up at me, a stupid grin on his face. The pain meds were evidently still in effect, but nevertheless I felt a blush rise. I wanted to smash my lips into his stupid, drowsy face.  
  
Instead I kissed him firmly, gently, careful not to hurt his bruised neck or chest. His grin spread even wider, and he purred softly. He brought his left arm up towards my face, but then the IV pulled and he winced.  
  
I pulled back and pushed his arm back down. “Enough of that. You’re going to hurt yourself.”  
  
He visibly pouted, “Since when have you been the one to say no to me?” he said, slurring his consonants.  
  
I blushed again. There were few things I liked more than teasing Drake Walker that was true, riling him up and watching him struggle for control. Now it was my turn for restraint, as he sagged back into a light sleep, his breath soft and shallow. I could have watched his face forever.  
  
That’s when I heard voices at the door again and a woman in a crisp white coat entered. “Hello Your Grace,” she made a slight bow with her head in deference, the title rang strangely in my ears. “I’m Dr. Knuth, I’m the head of emergency surgery,” she put her hand out and I shook it. “The good news is surgery went well. We were able to remove the bullet fragments and set the broken ribs. No major damage outside of the punctured lung, which is being relieved by the chest tube.” She nodded towards the bed, “We’re going to keep that in for a few days.”  
  
She picked up the chart and continued, “Barring any major infections, I think Mr. Walker is going to make a full recovery. The next week will be critical – until the tube is removed infection is a serious risk. In addition, we want to keep him in recovery for at least the next four, possibly six, weeks. No strenuous exercise, no heavy lifting, especially on his left side,” she nodded towards the bandaged on his bruised chest. “He should be waking up soon. We’ll continue to monitor him here until he’s stable enough to move to recovery.” She shut the chart, “Do you have any questions for me?” I shook my head, thinking.  
  
“Uh, his sister, she’ll want to see him.” The doctor nodded, “We typically only allow family on the ICU. Obviously there are exceptions,” she looked briefly to the guard with a slight frown, “but when she arrives we’ll fill her in.”  
  
The doctor paused and I looked back to Drake, still sleeping, his lip twitching slightly as he breathed.  
  
“I’ll be back on rounds tomorrow. If anything happens in the meantime, page the nurse.” I nodded, “Thank you,” I whispered and she bowed slightly again before heading towards the door. I listened to the sound of her shoes clacking as she left. He was alive, he was alive and was going to stay alive. I felt my body collapsing as I sunk into the chair by his bed. I picked up his right hand again and leaned forward to rest my head on his arm. The exhaustion hit me like a freight train. Before I could ever remember to call Liam I was asleep.  
  
-  
  
I barely left the hospital for the next month as people paraded in and out – Liam later that same day with Savannah, who wept with relief and enveloped Drake in a wincing hug. Then Hana and Maxwell, whose own harrowing experience horrified me. Bastian was furious about keeping A1 security detail at the hospital, and each time I returned to the palace to shower or pack new clothes I had to use leverage from Liam to return.  
  
But I couldn’t sleep at the palace. I woke in the soft-sheeted bed in cold sweats, screaming, imaging blood on my hands, Drake’s curled form on the floor. I was only ever content in the hospital room, where Drake’s soft breathing soothed me. He spent most of the first week in a haze of medications and pain as the chest tube slowly drained the air from his lung cavity. After three days the doctors removed it and he was able to go to recovery.  
  
We found ourselves in a full recovery suite. I didn’t know such a thing even existed. It was a large room with soft chairs and couches, a full bathtub, a mini-fridge. The bed sat to one side next to a dinette table. Wide picture windows looked out on an English-style courtyard, bright green in the daylight. It was obvious Liam had pulled some strings for the accommodations, and even Bastien seemed happier about the situation inside these accommodations. We were away from paparazzi and distraction, equipped for security and privacy.  
  
I set myself up on the pullout couch, but most of the time I sat next to Drake, my fingers looped casually though his right hand while I read or watched movies. After two weeks he began physical therapy. The therapist would rotate his arm, do short lifting with mild weights, and breathing exercises. Drake would scoff and act annoyed at the remedial workouts, but I could see his pain improve and some levity return.   
  
He turned to me one afternoon at the end of his therapy session. I used the time to catch up on phone calls and other business while the therapist sassed him mildly for not doing his exercises. That day I had just got off another contentious phone call with my mother. “Feratu, you do not have to stay here all the time.”  
  
I wheeled the lunch tray that had arrived over to his lap, “I absolutely do.”  
  
“You have a duchy to run, an investigation to conduct. You cannot stay here with me all the time.”  
  
“I absolutely can,” I handed him a napkin and he absently took it with his right hand.  
  
“I am distracting you.”  
  
“I like the distraction,” I popped a can of seltzer and sat down next to his bed, leaning over to steal the pickle spear from his sandwich.  
  
“Hey,” he said, “hey – ” he grabbed my wrist, “don’t take my pickle.”  
  
I looked at him, locking eyes. I said slowly, forcefully “I will take your pickle if I want it.” He blushed, the heat rising in his face, and released my arm. I cocked an eyebrow and brought the spear to my mouth. I gently sucked on the vinegary garnish, pulling it between my lips before suddenly chomping into the crisp flesh.  
  
He let out a quick breath through his nostrils, “You are killing me, Feratu.” I loved getting a rise out of him, watching his pupils dilate in desire. It was so easy to rile him up and I flushed with the attention. It was electric.  
  
The fact was we had not been together since the Homecoming Ball, a wonderful and terrible night all in one. Some days the tension between us was visible as a ripple in the air. I could feel him watching me and my skin prickled like I was still undressed on the bed in the palace with the candles softly illuminating the hunger on his face.  
  
It was true that the suite had no true privacy - nurses came in and out unexpectedly, guards stationed themselves inside the door - but the real fact was that I was afraid of hurting him, afraid of reversing all his healing, of causing him even the slightest pain or discomfort. I buried myself in his care out of a mix of obligation and genuine need. I found it impossible to really think about what he had done for me, or why. I could not reconcile it with what I was, which in all honesty was a 27-year-old woman from rural Pennsylvania with an MFA and a lot of debt, who happened to be working the right shift at the right bar on the right night. I had come to Cordonia on a lark – New York was not working out, and when Maxwell accosted me outside my apartment I saw a door opening; a trip to Europe, fancy parties in beautiful places. An escape for awhile - for as long as it lasted anyway - which I did not think would be very long.  
  
The truth was I had never been attracted to Liam. He was a handsome, kind man, sweet and caring, but I had no illusions about myself or our chemistry. It simply was not there. I planned to go to Europe for a few weeks, have a good time, and come home. I’d move back to Philly and get a real job. I’d start illustrating again. I’d do so many things.  
  
Now here I was, almost a year later, in a foreign hospital room with a duchy to my name and a man who would die for me. How stupid, how utterly insane.  
  
So I focused on the things I could control. I coordinated with Savannah and the doctors on his treatment and scheduled visits from friends - much to Drake’s continual protests. I brought him cronuts and black coffee in the mornings and burgers in the evenings when he complained the hospital portions were too small. I retrieved his belongings from his suite in the palace, his stacks of paperbacks and his soft flannel shirts. I refused to sneak in any whiskey - a constant request - on the grounds that it would interfere with his antibiotics.  
  
“Just a sip, just a little bit. A taste.”  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“Please, I’m wounded. Can’t you see my pain?”  
  
I smirked, “Pooooor Drake,” I cooed. “Poor sad unfortunate Drake.” I ran my hands through his hair, “How will he ever survive?”  
  
“Hmmm,” he tipped his head back, eyes closed at my touch, “Maybe I’ll think of other things to get drunk on.”   
  
I laughed and patted him lightly on the cheek. “Just stay pretty.”  
  
As he got better he sat up more and he laughed and smiled. Sometimes he reminded me of that drunk Drake dragging me around on a secret palace tour. Excited and stumbling, unable to articulate all the thoughts that ran through his head. I liked to watch him animated, he was like a whole new person I had never seen before, his face shining when he looked at me.  
  
But a shadow lingered. Bastian and the palace guard continued to investigate the assassination attempt. I found it hard to focus during our briefings, to understand the intricate web of leads he mapped out. I grew increasingly uncomfortable in my excursions between the palace and hospital, obscuring my face, wrapping myself in scarves and glasses and oversized coats. Paranoia crept in as a tension in my neck and shoulders, which I constantly shrugged off as the fault of the pull-out bed. Since my title had been announced publicly, people changed towards me. The staff at the hospital were kind, but deferential. I became “Your Grace,” a weighty moniker. I began to understand the bows they made, almost reflexively, to me and Liam. I did not feel any more powerful or capable than these degreed medical professionals, and it made me increasingly uncomfortable to be addressed so. I thought about what Drake had said the night of the Coronation Ball, about this place changing people.

The truth was I missed being myself, I missed being absolutely nobody.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to heat up, so this chapter is rated M for Mature.

He was discharged on a Wednesday with a list of instructions and a clattering bag of prescriptions. I’d cleaned up the suite, which had begun to feel like home. I was almost sad to leave my little oasis where court intrigue did not follow me, where Bastian did not harangue me, where I could spend all day basking in Drake and his theories of open fire cooking, or classic monster movies, or John McPhee essays. Where we would trade alien conspiracy theories and I would fall asleep awkwardly curled next to him on the flat hospital mattress as he caressed my hair.

As we turned to leave I insisted on carrying the bags, looping them over my shoulders. “No heavy lifting, not for two more weeks.”

“This is crazy, let me carry a bag.”

“I am perfectly capable.”

“What kind of jerk would I be to let you haul all my crap out of here? At least give one to Marc.” Marc turned at the sound of his name. “Marc is on-duty,” I waved him off “I got this.” Ignoring me, he reached over and grabbed the last duffel, slinging it over his right shoulder.

“You’re not going to win this one,” he said. I scowled at him and let it go as Marc led us down to the garage. The elevator door dinged open into the underground facility and I stepped out to find the pickup zone empty, “Where’s the car?”

“This is the car,” said Drake, gesturing towards a ratty silver pickup parked to one side.

“What?”

“This is my car, we’re taking my truck.”

“You have a truck?” I was frankly shocked. We had been hitching rides in limos and royal trains and private jets for so long, it had never occurred to me that Drake owned a car. Like a normal person.

He slung his bag in the back, and I heaved the other two over the side and into the bed as he scowled at my refusal for help. Then he opened the passenger door and waved, “Your Grace.” I nodded to him, “good sir” and ducked into the cab. He said a few words to Marc who nodded and turned back into the elevator, leaving us alone. 

The truck smelled like grease and woodsmoke and hay. The interior was dirty with boot mud and a fine layer of dust. He climbed into the driver’s side and shuffled some trash out of the way, fast food wrappers and coffee cups. “Sorry, I use it at the stables most of the time. It’s a workhorse.” He chuckled.

“I’m not used to slumming it like a commoner anymore,” I jibed, and he chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, Feratu, but if that’s the case you’re with the wrong man.”

“Hey,” I caught his chin in my hand and turned his face towards mine, suddenly serious. I met his eyes, “no, I’m not.”

He was close to me suddenly, his face on mine, his soft lips parting to slip his rough tongue into my mouth. I melted into him, my fingers wrapped in his collar, pulling him closer. I shifted and tried to move over the center console to climb into his lap. I was hungry for him all the time, for the touch of his skin and his face near my face. The scent of his breath, hot and sweet, filled me. The cab of the truck in the underground parking garage was the most privacy we had had in over a month. I wanted to drown in him there.

I knocked my knee into the cup holder and shifted, instead jamming my elbow into the stick shift. “Ugh,” I grunted and pulled away. I collapsed back into the passenger seat, crumpled and a bit breathless against the door. “You okay?” asked, with mild concern on his furrowed brow. “Hit my funny bone,” I hissed, rubbing the sting out of my elbow. He stared at me for a moment, hunger painted on his face. Then he smiled and reached to turn the ignition. “Let’s go home.”

-

It did not occur to me to ask where home was, or why we were in his truck. I let him drive through the city streets of Cordovia until the scenery became rural, apple orchards and rolling land with gentle dells and forested crowns. I suddenly realized we were not going to the palace. “Wait, where are we going?” He just smiled. “Drake, where are we going?”

“We’re going home.”

I sat back, smirking. “Fine, don’t tell me. I still don’t know how you got around Bastian’s iron grip.”

“It pays to know the right people,” he said, turning off onto a rural road. We’d been driving for about half an hour, but the scenery felt worlds away. Forest cover shaded the packed dirt road as the truck bumped gently up the rise. The air was bright and fresh and I rolled down the window to take it in. It had been so long since I’d smelled anything besides sterile hospital air.

I heard Drake inhale too, his chest expanding. The wind ruffled his hair, shaggy from so many weeks without a haircut. I liked it.

The drive ended at a small cabin nestled under a copse of birch trees, tall branches caressing the sky. Wood shingles clad the sides and a covered porch framed the first level, above which the roof slanted into a wide gable window facing east towards the drive. Around the cleared space of the house the earth was green with lush mosses that clung to granite outcroppings. Decaying leaffall made the air smell earthy and rich.

He pulled up to the side of the house and shut off the ignition. “What is this place?” I asked, astounded. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s my house.”

“You have a  _ house _ ?” I cried, turning back to him. What were these surprises? “I thought you lived at the palace,” I said lamely, which sounded odd even as it came out of my mouth.

He shrugged, “ Yeah, I grew up there since my dad was King’s Guard, but we spent a lot of time in Texas too. I always liked it more out there.” He scrunched his face up a bit, “When I came back from college it didn’t feel right living at the palace anymore. Too many people and fancy events. A man needs space to himself. But I couldn’t move back to Texas, Liam needed me.” He gestured towards the cabin, “I had a little money from my dad’s will saved away, so I bought this beauty.”

I could just see around the back of the building to where the land dropped off suddenly, opening into a grand view of the valley below. “Oh my god,” I breathed, climbing out of the cab and shutting the door, walking towards the edge for a better view. He followed as I stood on the ridge staring out at the trees and the fields and the wide, wide sky. Standing a hair’s breadth behind me he said, “I thought you would want to get away for a while. I convinced Bastian to arrange a decoy from the hospital. As far as everyone is concerned we returned to the palace under tight surveillance. No one knows we are here.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder as he breathed into my ear. “I could not pass up the opportunity to  _ really _ be alone with you.” Shivers shot up my spine at his gruff whisper. My knees turned to jelly as he nuzzled his face into my skin, breathing deeply, his stubble igniting all the nerves on the soft nape of my neck.

I couldn’t help the quiet gasp that escaped me, even as I tried to reign it in. He chuckled, “You cannot spend six weeks torturing me and not expect to face consequences,” he hissed. My heart began to race as he moved his hands to my hipbones, taking my ear in his teeth and pulling softly.

“I gladly accept my punishment,” I murmured with a smile.

“Oh, you will,” he hissed, and then in a moment he swung me up into a bridal carry, my legs looped over his arm. I laughed in surprise and then shock. “No, your arm. No heavy lifting!” I cried trying to get down, but he tightened his hold.

“You are hardly what I would call ‘heavy lifting.’” He marched me across the yard and up onto the porch, my arms looped around his neck. When we reached the door he shifted awkwardly, “Er, sorry. I have to get the keys.”

“Wait,” I said, reaching around and clawing at his jacket pocket, “I can get them.”

“They’re in my pants.”

“Oh?” I purred, raising my eyebrows. I watched his face as I slowly reached my right hand down into his front jeans pocket, wiggling my fingers against his leg, stroking his thigh through the fabric. He watched me darkly as I carefully pulled out the keyring and dangled it before his face. “These keys?”

“Open the door, Feratu before I do something indecent.” Lightening shot through me as I fumbled with the keychain.

“Which one?”

“The brass one, there,” my hands were shaking as I snapped the lock back and he shouldered inside. I didn’t get a view of the room before he threw me down onto a couch, the cloth rough against my skin as I arched my back and pulled my shirt over my head. Then he was on top of me, his weight pressing me into the cushions. His face was in my neck, his hands running under my arms and up my back.

“The things I have thought about doing to you…” he whispered. Everything grew hot and I gasped, twining my fingers in his hair. 

“Do them,” I hissed, bringing my lips to his ear and grazing them gently against the soft cartilage. He pulled back and sat up abruptly staring at me. “What?” I cried.

“Really?”

I was confused, “Really what?”

“Is this really what you want?” I groaned internally,  _ Drake… _

“Of course I want you, Drake, we talked about this…” he held up his hand. 

“Is this,” he grabbed my wrists tightly, “really,” he pinned them over my head forcefully, “what you  _ want _ .”  _ Oh. _

“Are you asking to ravish me, Drake Walker?” I teased, expecting him to blush. 

There was no blush. Instead his voice was deep and resonant, “Yes.”

I immediately felt the warmth between my legs as my breath hitched. “Is that a yes?” he asked. I bit my lip as I nodded, pushing out a whisper, “yes.” 

-

His hands fumbled for the button on my jeans and he ripped them down, flinging them across the room. My skin prickled with gooseflesh as I watched him pull his shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest. He descended on me again, his weight pressing me into the couch. His hands were everywhere, his fingers on my thighs and ass and the small of my back as his lips met mine roughly. He lifted my leg around his hips and moved into me and I moaned. I had my hands in his hair and his arms and his back. When he moved my bra strap down my arm I arched my back to give him space to undo the clasp, and I hit my head heavily on the wooden arm of the sofa.

There was a hollow knock and I cried out. He stopped and put his hand behind my head, frowning “Oh, baby.” My heart rose at the word on his lips,  _ baby.  _ “I think there is a better place we can do this.” 

He pulled back and stood up, taking me by the wrist and sitting me upright. Then he swooped down and threw me over his right shoulder, my ass in the air, his arms firmly clasping my thighs to his chest. 

“Drake!” I cried, kicking up my foot and laughing. “No lifting!”

His hand met my left buttock with a smack, the sting sharp and surprising, “No squirming.” I could feel my heartbeat between my legs. I saw the wood floor receding between the curtain of my own hair as he carried me up a flight of stairs. At the top he spun me around and threw me down. I landed heavily on the bed and let out an  _ omph _ , laughing. He kissed me quickly and then said, “Hold on.”

“Why...” I whined, leaning back and moaning, moving my hips seductively onto the duvet.

The room was sloped-ceiling, a finished attic space. He walked to a gable that faced the back of the house and threw the window open. A breeze surged through, dissipating the mustiness of unoccupancy. Then he came back and leaned over me as I lay on the bed. I reached up to touch his face, but he pressed my hands back down onto the pillows, “You don’t move.” He reached over and pushed open the window behind the headboard. His chest was an inch from my face and I reached up to nip him playfully.

He looked back down at me, “Bad girl.”

“Well I’m still waiting for my punishment,” I said. His face darkened and he roughly pulled down the straps of my bra, pinning my arms to my sides and exposing my breasts to the cool air. He moved me up into his lap and I straddled him as he undid the clasp and teased my hard nipples with his teeth. 

“You want to play a game?” he asked, brushing his lips against the soft underside of my breast. 

“A game?” I had been playing games with this man for the better part of a year and now, with the most privacy we had had since - ever -  _ he _ was playing games with  _ me _ .

“Drake Walker what I want is for you to  _ fuck _ me.”

He roughly swallowed my mouth with his, warm and sweet, pushing me back into the mattress. “Truth or dare?” he asked.

“Dare.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dare. Fuck me.”

He smiled, “That’s too easy, Feratu. Pick again.”

I groaned and writhed under him, “Then at least  _ touch _ me.”

He rolled to the side and tore my panties down. I kicked my legs to shimmy them the rest of the way off. He put his fingers in my mouth and I wrapped my tongue around them, sucking wetly. He watched me greedly as he pulled his fingers out and began gently stroking between my legs. 

“Truth,” he said, kissing my ear lightly. “When was the first time you thought about me while you touched yourself?” he whispered. 

_ Oh. _ I thought about that last night at Applewood Manor, after Drake had saved me from Tariq’s unwanted advances. I had touched his muscular back and felt his ribs, had been close enough to smell the warm fragrance of his skin - birchwood, like his soap. Had held him close to me briefly as he left. I shouldn’t have been so turned on, but I was, and I couldn’t sleep until I found release in the idea of his arms and his hands and his mouth.

“Applewood, after the hunt,” I gasped. I could feel him growing stiffer against my leg.

“Dare,” I breathed. “Let me touch you.” I reached down his stomach, crawling along his abs with my fingertips until I found the belt of his jeans. I unbuckled it and tugged it off roughly, throwing it back across the room. “Take them off,” I demanded, but he was already shimmying out of his pants, rolling to stand naked on the other side of the bed. I crawled up to him, sitting back on my feet as I touched his abs with one hand and took him with the other, rubbing the tip of his manhood, spreading wetness down the shaft. 

I felt his finger under my chin as he tipped my head back to meet his gaze.

“Truth. Do I satisfy you?”

The question had two meanings. Drake’s insecurity about Liam, and why I would choose him over a king, stood about the edges. But in the moment that was not what his face was asking. I smiled, stroking him gently, watching his eyes lose focus, “You know you do.” I wet my lips as he watched and then lowered my head, taking him in my mouth, finding his thick vein with my tongue and following it gently along his length.

“Charlotte…” he moaned. My name on his lips was electric.

“Dare,” I said, taking him in my mouth one more time, slowly, using my tongue to play. I met his eyes as he looked down. “Fuck me.”

He turned me over roughly, pushing me down on my back. He spread my legs, hoisting my knee to his hip and entered. I moaned involuntarily at the sensation of him finally filling me. He began thrusting and I lost all reason. Pure white filling my belly and my chest and my limbs and my fingers. My hands scrabbled at his chest, at the headboard, at the sheets, as my eyes rolled back. He grabbed one of my flailing wrists and moved it down, “touch yourself.” I tried, but I could not make my limbs behave. I could feel the sensation building as his rhythm reached a crescendo and my entire body lit up. Waves of feeling, one on top of another, ran through me in ecstasy. I heard him moan as I tightened around him and he came.

He breathed out heavily, hanging his head, staring at me spread out on the disheveled duvet beneath him. I felt him leave me, and collapse heavily on the bed to my left. 

“Truth,” he turned my head towards him with his finger. “Do you love me, Feratu?”

It wasn’t a fair question right then, with the endorphins racing through my bloodstream, the postcotial high, but I also knew that I could answer truthfully. I kissed him gently, his lips warm and soft. “Yes Drake Walker, I love you.”


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale - thanks for reading this far! It's been a good decade since I've written any fanfiction, and this was super fun. 
> 
> Enjoy the thrilling and emotional conclusion - as with the previous chapter, rated M for Mature.

I woke up the next morning by sitting bolt upright, gasping for air. It was still dark outside, but the early morning conversation of birds drifted through the window above the bed. Drake was asleep beside me on his back with his mouth open, breathing softly. My face was wet as I reached up to rub the palms of my hands into my eye sockets. I let out a long breath to calm myself and slid out of bed to find the bathroom. 

I tiptoed down the stairs, shivering in the cool air. At the bottom of the stairs the living room opened to the right, where my shirt and pants still lay on the floor, and to the left was a small kitchen. Down a short hallway towards the back of the cabin was the bathroom. I ducked inside, turning on the faucet to spash cool water on my face. 

I had been crying. My eyes were puffy and red. But the dream was gone, a haze dissipating by the second. Only leaving the lingering sensation of something _ red _ and  _ bad _ . I sat heavily on the closed toilet and wiped my face with an old towel, its fibers rough on my skin. I was awake now and although groggy I knew sleep wasn’t coming back. I was thirsty, and I needed coffee. 

The house was clearly a bachelor pad. Not the worst I had found myself waking up in, but it was untidy in a way that showed it was inhabited by a preoccupied man. The sofas were old, probably thrifted, and the rugs tattered and dusty. There were no bookshelves. Instead, books were piled up all over in little columns. Equine husbandry. World history. Cheap sci-fi. Water glasses and coffee mugs were propped up in odd spots on the mantel and the windowsills and side tables, next to random scatterings of pencils and notebooks, screwdrivers and pocket knives. There were a couple of pictures on the walls - landscape paintings - and not bad ones. Maybe not professional, but thoughtful and interesting. I found an old flannel shirt on a chair and put it on over my bare skin. 

The kitchen had wood floors and long wooden counters along the walls with matching cabinets overhead. A rectangular pine table sat in front of a large picture window facing out the back, the valley still obscured in early morning darkness. I tugged on the chain for the light in the ceiling fan and a yellow glow lit up the room. I opened a couple cabinets before finding the necessary items - a french press in the drying rack, a bag of ground coffee, sugar, spoons, mugs. I set the electric kettle on. The motions of making my own breakfast were almost foreign. Between the room service and the fancy dinners, this felt oddly normal. Even meditative. No dining etiquette, no correct fork. Barefoot in a kitchen making my own coffee. For the first time in awhile a sharp pang of homesickness hit me.

A bottle of whiskey sat on the counter where Drake had left it the day before. 

“Do not leave this bed,” he said, as he pulled his boxers back on. 

I sat up on my elbows, “Where are you going?” I didn’t want him to run off after I had just declared my love for him. I wanted to hold on to him. I tamped down the feeling of annoyance.

“To get our bags,” he thumped down the stairs before I could argue the heavy lifting point one more time. I heard him go outside and riffle around in the truck, and then come back, dropping the duffles heavily inside the door. The small cabin made every sound audible, and I heard him then in the kitchen opening cabinets, then finally coming back upstairs.

He had a plain glass tumbler in each hand and offered me one, sitting back on the bed. He raised the glass and we toasted, clinking them lighty. He kissed me again as the tumblers met, and then took a swig of the amber liquid, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. I did the same, letting the amber liquor burn my throat, a full, spicy rye whiskey. “That is the second best thing I have tasted today.” He looked over at me, “You of course being the first.”

The kettle dinged, pulling me back from thoughts of yesterday. I carefully poured the steaming water over the coffee grounds and carried the press to the table where the sugar and the mug waited. While they seeped I poured a glass of water from the tap and drained it. Then I filled another and drained it. By the third I was becoming satiated. I thought about eating, but there was no food in the kitchen besides shelf-stable cans, generic spices, and a fridge full of half-used condiments. Drake had not lived here for months, not since before our international excursions. 

I found an Annie Dillard book on the windowsill and picked it up. It occurred to me then that I didn’t know where my phone was  _ \- in my jeans _ \- but I did not retrieve it. I took my coffee and the book and went back upstairs. Slipping under the sheets I cracked the spine and began reading, waiting for Drake to wake up so we could talk. 

-

“That looks good on you,” Drake murmured as he rolled over, draping his arm around my waist and pulling me back down onto the mattress. I had been scrunched up reading, my back against the headboard. “It would look better on my floor.” 

I chuckled, “Utterly original.” 

“Yet not untrue.” I kissed him and he responded eagerly, pulling me further into the sheets. His hands roamed up under the back of the shirt. He swatted my butt, taking it into his hand and squeezing. I gave a soft  _ oh _ , and he purred against my lips, growling playfully.

I was surprised at how quickly I responded, how fast he sent my blood surging, leaving me breathless. He unbuttoned the shirt slowly, following the opening with his lips down my neck and my chest and my stomach, stopping right above the delta of my thighs. I rolled onto my back as he repositioned himself, wrapping his arms under my thighs and resting his hands on my hips. I looked down and we locked eyes as he lowered his mouth to me, his tongue gently parting me, slowly stroking the soft folds of my labia. 

I melted back into the pillows, my hips shifting slowly as he set the rhythm, careful and slow. It was a soft, gentle touch as he spread his fingers over the skin of my stomach. I could feel him trace my clitoris with his tastebuds as warmth pooled in my belly, rising with each stroke. 

As my breathing became shallower and my muscles tensed, he raised his head and I groaned. “No, stay,” but then he put his fingers in his mouth and drew them out slowly. I watched as his fingers took over, gasping softly as they entered me. He continued to kiss the inside of my thighs while working his hand in and out, until I felt his fingertips graze the sweet spot and my hips jerked. “There, right there,” I whispered, head thrown back, hands gripping the sheets. He paused, and then slowly traced the most sensitive part of my body. My skin grew warm, the bundle of nerves firing until they reached a crescendo. Waves of blinding release rolled up my body and I opened my mouth in a silent hiccuped breath. My vision blurred, my hips rolled and my toes curled as I came again, and again, and again until the feeling faded out leaving me boneless and breathless on the bed. 

He climbed back up to me and lay at my side. Cupping my head with his large hand, he turned my face towards his and kissed me firmly. I could smell myself in the stubble of his beard, taste myself on his tongue. “Do you have any idea -” he spoke between our compressed lips “- how wild you drive me.” 

“Hmmm,” I murmured, “Lil’ old me?.” 

“You’re terrible,” he sighed.

“Oh you have no idea,” I smiled and snuck my fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, where I could feel him against my leg. He breathed in sharply as I took him in my hand giving him one long, firm stroke before releasing him. I pushed him onto his back and pulled his briefs completely off, swinging my leg over his hips and placing my hands flat against his hard pectorals. 

He was completely hard as I rubbed myself gently against his silky head. He threw his face back, eyes closed, and moaned. His hands grabbed my hips and he tried to pull himself into me, but I raised myself away from him, “Not-uh.” He let go, and I lowered myself again. 

“Oh my  _ god _ …” he whispered. I could feel myself getting wet all over again looking at his bare chest, his sharp features lost in bliss. I let the teasing linger a little longer before I slowly -  _ slowly _ \- lowered myself onto him. He groaned as he entered me, his voice low and unrestrained. 

He brought his hands up to tease my nipples as I rode him, picking up speed as he matched my pace. It was spectacular how he felt, how he filled me, how I always wanted _ more _ . His breathing picked up as I arched my back and I felt his abs unclench as he filled me with a soft  _ ugh _ , his hands leaving red marks on my hips.

I kept moving, slowly now, bending over him as he sighed in the moments after release, when he was the most sensitive. “Feratu, you are killing me,” he moaned. Then he sucked his teeth quickly, “Okay, stop.” I stopped, but didn’t pull him out. Instead I leaned forward onto his chest as he caught his breath, listening to the rapid thump of his heartbeat in my ear. He absently stroked my hair away from my face, letting out a long, slow breath. “I could do this forever.”

“Mmm,” I agreed quietly. I didn’t want to move. I liked the feeling of him inside me and his warm skin pressed against mine as a breeze ran through the room. His firm arms on my back, his fingers grazing my face. We didn’t speak. Eventually he adjusted himself and I rolled off him, snuggling up to his side. Already I could feel the sticky dampness running down the inside of my thighs. 

“Can we talk?” I asked gently. His arm tensed as I realized what the phrase seemed to imply. “Drake, I want to give up the duchy.” 

“What?” he whispered, his voice tinged by surprise. 

“I don’t want to be a duchess.” 

He moved his head so that he could look at my face, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to be nobility,” I said, feeling emotion creep into my voice. “I don’t want to be anybody.”

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, looking at me hard, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

I sighed, tears pricking at my eyes, “I know, but if I renounce the duchy, I won’t be able to stay in Cordonia.” 

His lips pressed together firmly and he was quiet. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“I’m not fit to rule anybody,” I went on. “I never thought I was. I never came here expecting to become a queen, or a duchess. I wanted a vacation from my life, not a new one. Not the pressures of leadership or the… danger…” I trailed off lamely. I sat up, “I never thought Liam would propose to me - I was a waitress he met  _ one _ time! I never thought I’d fall in love. I never thought someone would try to kill-” I began to cry silently, my shoulders shaking. I pulled my knees to my chest, sinking my head into my hands. Drake enveloped me in his arms and the soft duvet. “I want to go home,” I whispered in a wet, shaky voice. “I just want to go home.” 

He didn’t say anything, just held me. I began to be afraid of what he was thinking. Did he think I was rejecting him? Or running away? We had never talked about the night of the Homecoming Ball. Not the sex, not the shooting. I wiped the tears from my eyes with the sleeve of the shirt, but I couldn’t look at him. After a weighty silence I whispered, “Please tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He gave a heavy sigh and was silent for a long moment. 

“I have never been so afraid of anything in my life as I was that night,” he began. “I was so afraid you were going to be hurt. I have nightmares about it all the time.” I turned to him, “What?” I whispered, but he shook his head brushing the comment away, “What I mean to say is, I want whatever you want, as long as you are safe and happy.” 

“I can’t ask you to leave Liam,” I choked. “Especially not after this.” 

“Liam is a grown man, and a king. I love him, he is my best friend, but he will be able to weather this storm. I’m not saying dealing with assassination attempts get easier, but it was hard the last time - he was young and he didn’t have the people around him he has now. Before you arrived Liam had me and a gaggle of fawning gentry. Now he has you and Maxwell and Hana - hell even Olivia has come around a bit. They might be nobility, but they are genuine and supportive friends. I watched you bring that out.”

“But if you leave…”

“If we leave I will have to text him everyday to keep his head on straight,” I chuckled despite myself, “but he will be okay. And it’s not like we’re leaving tomorrow. I do not plan to let you leave this bed for at least a week.” 

I sniffed, and wiped my face again with the shirtsleeve. “Do you mean that?” I whispered, “ _ we? _ ”

“Listen Feratu, I know _ this _ just started, and I’m probably high on my own oxytocin, but I have known you for a while now and I like what I see. I don’t want that to end. You have lived in Cordonia for over a year, of course you want to go home. I would be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it too.” He rested his head on my shoulder thoughtfully. 

“You know how I feel about court. The best thing that ever happened to me was when you walked into that snakepit. I don’t know a single other person who would have agreed to cheap whiskey in a dusty wine cellar over fancy dresses and hors d'oeuvres. I don’t know a single other person who would have paraded around Paris with me looking for a mysterious apartment instead of the Champs-Élysées, or convinced me to stay when we found it.”

“You have changed my life,” he whispered. “Now it’s my turn. I can’t ask you to abandon your life and become something you don’t want to be.” He sighed, “Honestly, Liam’s offer made me nervous. He obviously respects and cares for you, and I have no doubt you’d make a phenomenal duchess, but blending with royalty is not the life I imagined for myself.”

“You never dreamed of bagging a duchess?” I said lightly and he laughed, throwing his head back, his mouth open in a rich, deep chuckle. 

“You know me, Feratu, a gold-digger at heart.” I smacked him roughly on the shoulder before I realized what I was doing. He twitched back and sucked in his teeth, wincing in pain.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” I cried, my hands flying to my face. 

“Nah, I probably deserve it,” he grunted.

I hugged him, turning myself around and bringing my lips to his. The kiss was sweet and tender. “Thank you,” I said.

“For you Feratu, absolutely anything.” He kissed me again, “I’m glad to be home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So in full disclosure, I have not read TRR3 - I stopped right at the end of book two. As you can tell I am a Drake stan, and the duchy plotline turned me off. I wanted some happily ever after where MC and Drake went off and lived a normal happy life like normal happy people! I am a romantic, but not a royalist, at heart. 
> 
> So I wrote it. I wanted to make the response to an assassination attempt feel real and I wanted the MC to be more of a character than a shell for the player. Someone with her own life and her own problems before Cordonia. The game can make her seem very carefree and ready-for-anything, but that’s not a real person. Hopefully this is a more realistic and down-to-earth portrayal. 
> 
> Also, I went off and read a lot of other fanfiction pieces about the end of Book 2 and there were elements from a lot of them that I liked and I brought to this fiction - Drake and MC having time alone, secluded wooded retreats, etc. - and I am sorry I cannot remember which stories they came from. Just know it is not my intention to steal ideas, but if you see elements of your own story in this please contact me I will gladly credit you.


End file.
